Happy Hour
by VampLover1
Summary: Just for fun! A one-shot to promote the "Poppin' Eric's Cherry" new writer's contest. When two single hotel guests connect at Happy Hour, the sparks fly, of course! AH, lemons.


"**Poppin' Eric's Cherry" One-Shot Contest**

**Title: Happy Hour**

**Pen name: VampLover1**

**Status (Virgin or Almost-Virgin): No comment!**

**Primary Players: Sookie & Eric**

**Beta'd by: s. meadows**

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the SVM series, Charlaine Harris, or the IKEA retail franchise.

**To see other entries in the "Poppin' Eric's Cherry" contest, please visit the C2:**

http://www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/community/Poppin_Erics_Cherry_One-Shot_Contest/75492/

* * *

The chic lobby bar in the Atlanta Hilton Midtown was crowded on this warm weekday evening. It was still Happy Hour here on the East coast; large crowds of businessmen, tourists, and conference attendees mingled and drank, their voices laughing and rising above the soft musical strains of the hired pianist.

A tall, blond guest smoothly navigated his way through the maze of people, searching for an available seat and finding one in a far corner of the bar. The small table was occupied by an attractive blonde woman who seemed to be nursing a mixed drink. The chair to her right was vacant, but it was possible she was saving it for someone.

"Please. Might I share this space with you? All of the other seats are…" He seemed to struggle to find the right word. "Occupied. In use."

To her pure Southern ears, he had an odd, lilting accent, his phrasing awkward but polite. _Probably European_, she thought. Definitely different than what she was used to. _This could be interesting…_

* * *

The handsome man towering above me seemed pleased when I motioned to the empty chair beside me. The bar was uncomfortably packed for Happy Hour, and I knew it wasn't fair to save the seat much longer. It seemed highly unlikely that my teaching colleague, Amelia, would be joining me here in the bar, anyway. She had recently "hooked up" with a sexy biology teacher from the educational conference we were attending. Even though she and I were sharing a hotel room to cut back on costs, she had slept elsewhere the previous two nights. Yes, it was nice to have some privacy, but I also missed the comfort of having company at night, especially while staying in an unfamiliar city, far from home.

As he settled into the leather swivel chair, his large frame dwarfed the seat. He stretched out his long legs before placing his beer bottle on the small table between us. He grabbed a handful of mixed nuts and made himself right at home. I tried not to stare, but he was so good-looking—_model_ good-looking. He was dressed in a well-tailored suit, his silk tie loosened, his blond hair long, by American business standards. I nodded to him and reached for some nuts myself. He made me a little nervous for some reason.

"Crowded tonight, no?" He flashed a brilliant smile at me, and I smiled back.

"Yes, I'm surprised so many people come to Happy Hour."

"Well, the Hilton has always one of the best ones in the city, I believe. The music, the people, the…"

Again he seemed to think about which word to use. "Atmosphere," he finally supplied and gestured to our warm, rich surroundings and the stylish lobby before us. He turned to face me directly then and his sapphire-blue eyes were mesmerizing.

"People leave here happier always than when they arrive always," he said, his accented syllables sounding sexy and seductive, even if his phrasing was peculiar.

Time to take a big sip of my gin and tonic.

"I make it a point to share in Happy Hour always when I am in town," he added. Okay, the guy definitely had a problem with his use of 'always,' but I wasn't about to correct him.

"Oh, do you travel to Atlanta often? Where are you from?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"I am from Sweden, and yes, I travel very much for business. To Atlanta and many other places. I enjoy traveling much." He smiled again before taking a sip of his beer and reaching for more nuts.

Sweden…? Hmm. Given my limited knowledge of geography and other cultures, I quickly searched my brain for an appropriate topic of conversation. What did I know that was Swedish? ABBA, Volvos, meatballs, fish, IKEA? None of those seemed like appropriate topics to pursue. Lame stereotypes? Most definitely. Dazzling conversation starters? Hardly.

"So what do you do for business?" I asked, figuring that was a safe question and a good way to avoid showing my ignorance of all things Swedish.

"I help set up retail locations worldwide for my family's business," he said in his charming accent. "You have heard of it, maybe? IKEA store?"

I choked on the gin and tonic I had just sipped, spraying my drink everywhere in the most unladylike way. Luckily he seemed more concerned than disgusted, and he lightly slapped my back as I continued to cough and sputter. I could feel myself turning beet red from embarrassment.

"Are you alright, Miss?" he asked, grabbing a small cocktail napkin from the table and handing it to me to help me clean myself up.

"Yes, yes, I just swallowed wrong," I stammered, trying to compose myself. "And you can call me Sookie," I added, trying to be courteous in the face of awkwardness, just like my Gran raised me to be.

"Sookie?" he asked as the two syllables of my name fell across his lips in a most provocative way. It made me wish I had a much longer name.

"That is an American name, yes? I am not familiar with such a name," he said, somewhat annoyed that my name didn't seem to match his knowledge of American society.

"Well, it's a nickname. My real name is Susannah, or Suzie for short, but my Gran always said I had problems pronouncing it when I was little. It came out 'Sookie,' and somehow the name stuck." I coughed again then swallowed, finally able to resume breathing normally.

He flashed a beautiful smile at me and extended his hand in greeting.

"I am Eric. Eric Northman."

As he took my fingers in his large hand, he lingered there a little longer than necessary, in my opinion. He slowly ran his thumb across my palm, causing a tingling sensation in my nether regions. But maybe that's how they shake hands in Sweden?

I pulled my hand back, a little unnerved by my body's reaction to him. He settled back in his seat and watched me, clearly waiting for me to say something.

"Um, Northman… that doesn't sound very Swedish," I began. Thinking back to the merchandise signs I saw on my one and only IKEA shopping trip, I expected something with a lot of K's and D's and not enough vowels.

"Well, my family name is _Kamprad_, but I prefer to travel and do business dealings always without the distraction of our history and reputation. My grandfather, Ingvar Kamprad, started the company and in Sweden, my family is well-known… ah, 'famous' you would call it. And 'prosperous' is the word too, I think."

I glanced at his Rolex and fine tailored suit, realizing that 'prosperous' was _exactly_ the word. The Kamprads were probably like royalty over there. I guess I could understand his desire to lay low in the public eye, but a truly ruthless businessman would use a family name like that to his advantage. Maybe Eric wasn't too sharp in the business world. I wondered more about his background.

"Where did you go to school? Your English is very good." Aside from his 'always' problem.

"Ah, thank you. I studied always with private schools and tutors, through secondary education. I learned English mainly, but French and Spanish as well. I am still attending university in business at Handelshögskolan in Stockholm, but I travel and work, so it is taking longer to complete."

A college student? Most likely a playboy, too. I took a closer look at his lovely face and realized that he couldn't have been more than 22 or 23. God, I felt old. Not that 38 was exactly ancient, but I contemplated what age difference it would take to bring me into the 'cougar' category. At least the first numbers in our ages were only one decade apart. What did it matter, though? Nothing sexual was going to happen between us tonight – I was sipping mixed drinks with a youngmodel-like international businessman who was clearly out of my league.

At this point, a server came over to ask us if we wanted anything else to drink. Another round was ordered, and our conversation continued.

"So have you shopped always at IKEA? What do you think of Swedish…" pausing once more to recall the correct term, "ingenuity?"

"Oh, it's such an interesting place, Eric. I spent hours looking around there when I visited my cousin in Philadelphia. We don't have a location where I live, though." And it really _was_ a cool store, filled with all kinds of home furnishings, kitchen ware, furniture, and odds and ends. You kind of have to see one to fully understand the concept, though.

"Do you have a favorite item in the store, perhaps? Something memorable, yes? This is good to know. For marketing, of course," he said seriously.

And I nodded in firm agreement, although I know nothing about marketing. But obviously this was his baby, and he found feedback helpful.

"Well, the best part to me is the little 'apartments' you have set up, with the square footage listed, and all the compact ways you can live in that space and store things." Again, you kind of have to see it to fully understand the concept.

"How come things are so _small_ where you live?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He laughed heartily at my question. "Not _everything_ is so small in Sweden," he said, and he waggled his eyebrows as if daring me to contradict him. Gulp.

"So, I am _very_ fascinated now. Tell me about you, Sookie," he continued, stroking his longneck bottle in a very suggestive way.

He was fascinated? "Um, I live and work in New Orleans, but grew up in northern Louisiana. I'm here with another teacher for a regional teaching conference. We fly home in the morning," I said.

"You are a teacher? What do you teach?" he asked with what seemed like sincere interest.

"Well, I'm not a regular classroom teacher. I'm a high school guidance counselor. Sometimes I conduct small group lessons, but mostly I work with students one-on-one. You know, dealing with their problems and stuff."

"Ah, perfect! You like to _help_ people!" he smiled. "Does it make you feel good always to help people?"

"I suppose so," I replied. I doubted I would still be doing my counseling work if it wasn't rewarding and fulfilling to me.

"So it is good for you to help people with problems?"

I had a strong feeling that this line of questioning was going somewhere I wasn't quite ready to go. I simply nodded and reached for more nuts from the rapidly diminishing supply.

He leaned in closer to me. "I ask you this, Sookie, because I think you might be able to help me with a problem I have always," he said very quietly.

Despite how near to me he was, it was actually difficult to hear him above the loud buzz of the bar crowd, and the loud beat of my racing heart. What kind of problem could _I_ possibly help him with? I could feel his breath on my neck when he spoke, and I shivered involuntarily. He slowly ran a long finger up and down my bare arm, and I stifled the moan his touch had triggered. God, he was attractive. I looked at him, and he raised an eyebrow in question, waiting for me to respond.

Thankfully, our fresh drinks arrived at that moment and the sexual tension between us lessened for a brief while. We sipped, swallowed, and stroked (our drinks), neither of us saying anything for a few minutes.

"Tell me, Sookie, what things do you like?" he asked, breaking the silence. I wasn't sure if he meant in bed, or in general, so I went with the easier answer.

"Um, I read a lot and really enjoy movies and concerts. What about you?"

"Opera, the theater, horseback riding, skiing," he answered easily. Okay, we really were from different worlds, culturally AND economically. I was hoping that we could meet on middle ground somewhere.

"What about food, Eric? Do you eat a lot of fancy continental food? Or can you tolerate American food when you are traveling in the States?" I was a McDonald's junkie but didn't see the need to share that with him.

"Well, I love all types of cuisine, Sookie, even American fast-food. As I was growing up, we had always a cook, and my favorite was from France, Madame Bellefleur. She was a veryunattractive woman, um, heavy, but her cooking was, how you call it, _divine_."

His eyes lit up with fondness at the memory of his former cook, and I wondered what it must have been like to be raised with servants, private tutors, and money. If not for the scholarship I earned to attend Tulane, who knows where I would have ended up for my education.

"One time, I was a young child still, I remember coming home early from my riding lesson," he began. Jeez. I rolled my eyes at him to show how ridiculous his privileged life was, but he simply continued his story.

"And I went in the back room, a room where food is stored?" He looked to me for vocabulary help.

"Um, pantry?" I suggested.

"Yes, pantry, and there on the floor were Monsieur and Madame Bellefleur, sharing intercourse, and very naked, and it was almost enough to make me…"

"Throw up?" I helpfully provided.

"Exactly!" he laughed. "Even now, thinking of them always can make me sick."

I giggled a little at the image, wondering how bad it must have been to have had such a lasting effect on him. We continued sipping, swallowing, and stroking (our drinks).

"Are you a married woman?" he asked, surprising me.

"Not any more. Divorced," I said a little bitterly, trying to block out the lackluster five years I had spent with Bill. Since the divorce, I had dated a few guys, one of them a fellow teacher, but no one really seemed to excite me in the bedroom. I wasn't sure _what_ I was looking for in that department.

"So you are experienced, yes?" Eric questioned with a straight face, and I almost choked on my drink again.

"Um, experienced in what?" I asked hesitantly, afraid of what his answer would be.

"Experienced in love-making, of course," he said matter-of-factly. Gulp.

"Please do not think me forward, but you are a very beautiful and sexy woman, Sookie." I could feel the blush rise to my cheeks.

"We are adults, yes? We like each other, yes? Why should we not always pleasure ourselves this evening?" he asked, with a logic that was hard to dismiss. I was even starting to like his awkward use of 'always.' He took my hand and started that palm-stroking thing again. Shit.

"We are both leaving tomorrow," he reminded me, and then planted a soft, lingering kiss on my lips that left me both stunned and stimulated. I looked at him, and his blue eyes were filled with the promise of better things to come.

I couldn't believe this was happening. Right next to me sat the most handsome stud of a man, a man who was doing things to my libido and imagination that would make my Gran blush. If I was reading him correctly (and how could I not?), he was interested in bedding me for a no-strings-attached one-night fling. It took me only a moment to consider.

"So what's this 'problem' you need me to help you with?" I asked playfully.

"Come up to my room, and I will show you..."

There was nothing more to say. We smiled at each other, and he winked at me. After dropping some money down on the table to cover the cost of the drinks, he offered his hand and pulled me up to my modest height. Next to him, I felt downright petite. He squeezed my hand, and I let him weave us through the crowd until we reached the open lobby. We kept holding hands as we headed towards the glass elevators, my head a mixture of conflicting emotions. Part of me was disgusted that I would leave a bar with a complete stranger for what was sure to be an intimate encounter in his hotel room. But a bigger part of me, thankfully, was thrilled at the thought of what this intimate encounter might entail. It was so exciting, and SO unlike me to just give in to my urges like this. But it _was_ Happy Hour, I reasoned, and I deserved to be happy, for at least an hour.

We rode up, and up, until we reached the penthouse level. Eric had to swipe his room key for us to access the floor and when we exited the elevator, I could see why the staff worked to keep the 'commoners' out. The posh hallway led to massive double doors, the entrance to his junior suite. Once inside, we reached a sunken living room, complete with fireplace, wet bar and large work area. Amelia would have died if she could see how much nicer this was than our double-bedded accommodations seven floors below.

Eric offered me a drink but I declined; I was determined to be as clear-headed as possible tonight for what I hoped would be a memorable experience. My two gin-and-tonics from the bar had loosened me up a bit, and I already had the beginnings of a buzz. Still, I was nervous as well as excited; I wondered if this was going to be some rough and tumble roll in the hay, or a slow and sensuous rendezvous. I sighed, thinking about the stunning specimen in the room with me. _Any_ way he wanted to do it would work just fine by me.

Of course, I didn't have any condoms with me; it's not like I had expected to come to Atlanta and screw a gorgeous foreigner. But given how many countries his dick must have traveled by now, I assumed he must be well-stocked in those kinds of supplies. It was pretty ironic, actually; I had counseled so many students about 'safe sex' and about being responsible, and here I was… Nope, wasn't gonna go there. I was determined to enjoy what was to _come_ tonight, multiple times, hopefully.

He took off his suit jacket and tie, laying them across a chair, while I stood rooted to my spot before the couch. He gave me a sultry, knowing look; within seconds he was standing behind me, caressing my shoulders with very talented fingers and working down the straps of my sundress. He sure didn't like to waste time. After gently lifting my hair, he slowly kissed a path along my bare shoulders, exposed neckline, and upper back, periodically running his tongue along the skin. My breath hitched at the thought of him using that tongue in other, more intimate places. Mmm.

I was surprised when he began to nuzzle my neck, nipping me a little as he deeply inhaled my scent and moaned in approval. He leaned in close to my ear and whispered, "Sookie…" in that hypnotic accent of his. "Sookie…" he repeated before pulling the straps down further, revealing my breasts as my dress was pushed down to my waist. I trembled a little at the exposure and wanted to turn around and begin undressing him, too. But it felt so good like this that I leaned back into him, giving him full access to my eager breasts. In this new position, I could now feel very hard evidence of his arousal pressed against my back. God, it seemed to run the length of at least half of my spine! Gulp.

He used one hand to begin kneading my breasts, alternately pinching and rolling the nipples until I was squirming with both pain and pleasure. He used the other hand to expertly unzip the gathered sundress, letting it fall to the floor until all that remained were plain bikini panties and sandals. I felt a little self-conscious to be wearing JCPenney cotton underwear rather than something sexy and lacy, but he didn't seem to notice in the least.

So I was currently getting the double treatment: one hand doing magical things to my breasts, the other one magically rubbing against my now very-wet underwear. As he capably worked a few long fingers under the elastic, I decided that this man certainly didn't have any 'problems' which required my help, thank goodness.

"It feels good, yes?" he asked as he curled one finger inside of me and stroked my clit with his thumb. At that moment I would have said 'yes' to anything Eric asked me... it felt _that_ _good_. I wondered if this was some sort of Swedish technique, since no American fingers had ever felt _that good_ before.

"Tell me how to please you," he whispered huskily.

"Mmm… just keep doing what you're doing…" I managed to croak out while the pleasure continued to build. It had been quite a while since something without batteries had brought me to an orgasm, and I was really looking forward to what was coming. I could feel how close I was-- each stroke, each pinch heightening the sensation and intensity.

"Yes, yes, yes," I chanted when I was just on the brink, and he pulled me tighter against him until I thought his rock-hard penis was going to pierce my back. At the same time I found my welcome release, I heard him moan and release as well, wetness from his pants seeping through onto my back. Was that a Swedish technique as well? If so, I wasn't as thrilled with that one.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered, and he pulled back from me and excused himself to use the bathroom. Flushed and a little confused about recent events, I put my sundress back on and sat on the couch to cool down. I was tingly and still aroused, but his abrupt departure kind of dampened my mood. A few minutes later, he emerged wearing only a towel around his waist, and he joined me on the couch. His bare chest, arms, and abs were well-sculpted and… perfect. I could only imagine what lurked under that towel.

He reached over and planted a soft kiss on my cheek before sighing. "So Sookie," he began. "You see now what is my problem. Each time I have tried to have intercourse always with a woman, I could not wait before I entered. The women have been less than happy, and I am still _oskuld_," he said dejectedly.

"Oskuld?" I asked, still unsure of what he was really telling me.

"Yes, what you call 'virgin,' I think. Without sin."

I did my best to suppress a laugh because I _am_ trained in a helping profession, after all. But seriously? He expected me to believe that a gorgeous man like him, who had such unbelievably talented fingers, who probably had women swooning for him worldwide, had never actually penetrated a woman before? Shit. Had he been with men instead?

"You are a virgin with women? You like men, then?" I asked, for clarification.

He laughed. "No, I have no interest in men, Sookie. I _love_ women," he assured me. "Always," he added for good measure.

"And how exactly am I supposed to help you with this?" I asked skeptically, still unsure whether to believe him or make a beeline for the door.

"You must be very experienced with many men, by your age, yes? Tell me how other men control this," he said sincerely.

I felt myself redden at his implication that I was easy, or old, or both. My eyes narrowed, and I stood to gather my purse, sorely tempted to throw something hard at his beautiful face.

"Fucking Swedish asshole!" I shouted.

He looked confused and surprised by my actions; maybe he didn't understand English profanity? He certainly didn't understand English manners. I stomped through the hallway and headed for the door, but he reached me quickly and grabbed my arm.

"Sookie! What have I done? Please, it is my English. I have said something inappropriate, yes? I am sorry!" He was practically begging, and the part of me who likes to believe the best of people turned around to face him.

"Do you think I sleep around? I have never done this before, Eric!" I cried. "You think I'm _old_," I sniffled, acting more like an emotional teenager than a grown woman.

"NO! You are beautiful!" he assured me. "I think only that always men must desire you. There is no shame in pleasure often, Sookie. You can help me. Please, stay with me," he pleaded.

He leaned down and lifted up my chin to meet his burning sapphire eyes. He planted a searing kiss on my lips, and although I wanted to resist him, he was just too damn sexy. I dropped my purse and ran my fingers through his mussed-up hair as our kiss deepened. He picked me up without effort, and I wrapped my legs around his towel-clad waist and my arms around his neck. He was _very_ good at kissing, and soon we developed a heated rhythm as our lips and tongues fully explored each other.

He carried me through the suite, our lips still connected, our tongues still dueling. I assumed we were heading for the bedroom and was surprised when we entered the bathroom instead. It was enormous, of course, with a jetted tub, an elaborately tiled shower meant for two, a separate dressing area, and lovely marble countertops. I was ready to take up residence permanently.

He lowered me to my feet and when I gave him a questioning look, he merely motioned to the tub, saying, "It helps me to relax much."

I nodded in agreement, and he reached behind me to start the water, adding bath gel in expert fashion. I watched him lean his long body over the tub, his towel just inches from my grip; it was like the towel was calling to me, wanting me to pull it away and release the goods. I reached out and yanked it from the bottom, ultimately revealing the most beautiful ass I had ever seen. Seriously.

Eric turned around, grinning, and if I thought the back view was impressive, the front one about did me in. He was fully erect again, which surprised me. (He seemed to have a rapid recovery rate.) And he was uncircumcised, something I had never before encountered in my limited history of viewing penises. (Must be a European thing.) My mouth hung open, taking in all of what stood at attention before me. The sheer size of him was… daunting, to say the least. He was so correct about not everything being small in Sweden.

"Naughty girl," he teased, wagging a finger at me in mock disapproval. "Do you like what you see?" I licked my lips and smiled.

"It is not fair, Sookie, that you get to see me, and I do not see you."

"Well, we can fix that," I promised, kicking off my sandals and reaching back to unzip my sundress. I slowly lowered it to the tile floor, stepping out of it, clad only in my basic bikinis again. He watched me intently as my shaky hands moved down to remove the panties. And there we both stood, naked as the day we were born, each of us admiring the other.

"Du är väldigt vacker," he murmured, and even though I had no idea what he was saying, it sounded complimentary to me.

"You are very beautiful, Sookie," he said, tearing his eyes away from my breasts to my face.

Providing one of the lamest replies ever, I said, "So are you."

He smiled and stepped into the tub, which was rapidly filling with warm water and vanilla-scented bubbles. He offered his hand and helped me settle across from him, our legs stretched open along the sides of the massive tub. It was a comfortable feeling, and I settled back and closed my eyes, trying to relax. He gently rubbed my legs up and down, and I thanked God that I had decided to shave that morning.

My thoughts returned to his 'problem,' and how we were going to address it this evening. My very first boyfriend had a similar control problem, but we were only 17 at the time and very excitable. You would think a guy Eric's age would be better able to manage his sperm by now. I opened my eyes to catch my bath partner staring at me. He smiled before closing his eyes, and we both relaxed and soaked for a while, keeping our hands and privates to ourselves for the time being.

"Eric, I think I know how to help you," I said after much thought. "But we need to take things slowly, and you need to trust me," I told him.

His face brightened, and he sat up straighter, extending his long fingers under the water to try and find familiar territory to stroke.

"No, not here," I said. "Let's go to the bedroom." Eric looked a little disappointed but nodded his agreement.

"I will leave it always to your capable hands, Miss Helper," he said playfully.

He rose before me, and I'll admit that looking way up at him from my angle way down in the tub was an overwhelming experience. He stepped out and gathered two plush white towels from the warming rack and offered one wet hand to help me out of the tub. We very slowly dried each other, being sure to reach every little (and big) body part so that not a drop of water remained behind.

I could tell by the way he spent extra time drying off my breasts that Eric was a "boob man." I could also tell he was really restraining himself from doing more, even though we both were getting really turned on by all of the rubbing and steam and visible skin. I was glad to see that he could manage _some_ control; that would make my 'help session' tonight easier, I hoped.

"Shall we?" he asked and gestured towards the doorway.

"After you," I insisted, hoping to get a nice view of his rear end as we walked to the bedroom. I was _not_ disappointed.

The bedroom suite was well-appointed, as I expected it to be. I sat down on what felt like the world's most comfortable bed. It was covered in down and seemed larger than king-size, if that was even possible.

"Lay on your stomach," he suggested huskily, and I readily obeyed, centering myself face down in the center of down-filled luxury. I was unsure of where this was headed, but I was certainly game as long as nothing premature happened again on his part. I was pleasantly surprised when he straddled my naked body with his and began slowly massaging my neck and shoulders. I almost chuckled aloud at one point when I realized he was giving me a 'Swedish massage,' but I restrained myself; I wasn't too sure how he would take my sense of humor.

He continued working on the muscles of my back, and I couldn't help moaning at the pleasure he was bringing me. I melted into his methodic kneading and rubbing, almost falling asleep from the blissful experience. Damn, he was talented with his hands! He then leaned across my back to nuzzle into my neck, and his super-sized erection against my back was the first BIG clue that he was going to lose control again. Soon.

"How are you doing, Eric? Are you close?" I whispered seductively.

"Mmm," he moaned, and I sprung my plan into action before he could erupt again.

"Think of the Bellefleurs, Eric. Remember what you saw," I told him.

"What?" he asked me, confused.

"Just try and picture them having sex on the pantry floor," I explained.

Immediately I could feel his penis go flaccid and limp against me. It worked like a charm. He grunted in despair and fell down on the bed, beside me. I propped up on my elbows to look at him.

"What… why did you do that Sookie? You call that _helping_ me?" he asked, perplexed and upset.

"It's simple, Eric. Every time you feel like you're going to climax too soon, just think about the Bellefleurs to kind of slow yourself down."

I had studied enough psychology in college to understand the power of the mind and the power of suggestion. The way I figured it, we could use his head above the waist to solve the problem of his head below the waist. I wasn't a straight-A student for nothing.

"But look at me, Sookie," he whined, gazing down at his deflated manhood. "This goes _too_ far."

"No, it just takes practice. And I'm willing to practice with you _all night_, Eric," I cooed. He relaxed a little at my suggestion.

"Now tell me how to please you, Eric…"

And he did. The Swedish seem to be very comfortable explaining (in detail) what really turns them on. At least this Swede did, anyway. After much creative use of my hands and lips and tongue on very intimate parts of his beautiful body, his penis was _very_ happy to cooperate again. In fact, our repeated practice with the "Bellefleur stimulus" now only elicited a slight softening each time he gained control of his orgasm. I thought our 'help session' was going quite well.

"Are you ready for me, Sookie?" he asked. I was lying on my back at this point, after hours of 'practice.' Eric was poised above me, finally ready to enter me and leave his _oskuld_ status behind him.

"Um, Eric do you have something, you know, for protection?" I asked. Even if I had the forethought to carry condoms in my purse, they certainly wouldn't have been the right size to get the job done. I wondered if the hotel gift shop carried Magnums.

"Yes, of course, Sookie. Wait, please," he said before leaning over to rummage through the nightstand's top drawer. Hmm. I tried not to think too much about why an _oskuld _would carry a supply of condoms with him, right next to the bed, no less.

He returned to his former position, expertly rolling on an appropriately-sized mega-condom. Maybe it was a Swedish brand since it fit Eric so perfectly.

"So," I asked, "you just happen to have these with you, Eric?"

He grinned, and his eyes sparkled. "I read a lot about American culture and follow customs always. Isn't there some group here that says 'Be prepared always'?"

That was the freaking Boy Scout motto (although he was doing his usual misplaced modifier thing again), and Eric was definitely no boy scout. But I just let it go; sometimes it's better not to think too much about things.

After confirming I was indeed ready for him, he slowly worked his way into me, and what he lacked in experience he made up for in natural ability. Soon he was thrusting for all he was worth, and I was happily rising up to meet him, taking in every hard inch of him. It was _divine_. I reached back to grab his beautiful ass, urging him deeper still, until I could feel my own orgasm approaching. Eric was lasting much longer than I thought he would, given his history, but I guess he was just a quick learner.

"Are you close always, Sookie? Please, I cannot wait any longer," he begged me. "Even with thoughts of the Bellefleurs."

"Yes, yes, yes," I chanted. And when he tensed and released with a force to be reckoned with, we both moaned loudly as he took me over the edge with him. He collapsed on top of me, and we both just lay there breathless, happily trying to recover from this exceptional first time.

"You are a very good helper," he panted before rolling off of me. I smiled, satisfied by both his compliment and his body.

"I'm sure you say that to all of the women you meet in your travels," I remarked off-handedly, not wanting to believe it was true.

"No, Sookie. It is not like that at all," he said. And he turned on his side to face me, leaning in to softly kiss me and stroke my hair.

"You are very special, Sookie. I will remember always this night together with you," he said quietly, his blue eyes piercing me in their sincerity. "Thank you for being my first."

Eric was right about Happy Hour at the Hilton—people did leave happier than when they arrived. I snuggled deep into his warm embrace, sated and delighted that I could be of such help to him during his time of need.

Like Eric, I would remember this special night together. Always.

* * *

The chic lobby bar in the Chicago Hyatt Miracle Mile was crowded on this warm weekday evening. It was still Happy Hour here in the Midwest; large crowds of businessmen, tourists, and conference attendees mingled and drank, their voices laughing and rising above the soft musical strains of the hired pianist.

A tall, blond guest smoothly navigated his way through the maze of people, searching for an available seat and finding one in a far corner of the bar. The small table was occupied by an attractive red-haired woman who seemed to be nursing a mixed drink. The chair to her left was vacant, but it was possible she was saving it for someone.

"Please. Might I share this space with you? All of the other seats are…" He seemed to struggle to find the right word. "Occupied. In use."

To her pure Northern ears, he had an odd, lilting accent, his phrasing awkward but polite. _Probably European_, she thought. Definitely different than what she was used to. _This could be interesting…_

* * *

A/N: Big thanks to **KLloyd** who was kind enough to help with translations and provide info about Swedish culture to me, ignorant American that I am!

So, you virgin writers out there… now it's YOUR turn to write and submit a one-shot for the contest! Be sure to read all of the details on the profile page before entering the contest: http://www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/u/2130969/Poppin_Cherries


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